The Art of Floating (25 page)

“
Richard, it was Seth Resnick's car.”

“Mrs. Windwill?”

“Yes.”

“You remembered?”

“Yes, I haven't been able to get that damn otter and the squeal of brakes out of my head. I finally figured it out.”

“How do you know it was Seth Resnick's car?”

“He went by this morning. He hit the brakes, and I heard the squeal from the garden. It was the same squeal. Though in hindsight, more of a screech than a squeal.”

“You're sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

“What would Seth be doing out at four thirty in the morning?”

“Maybe it wasn't Seth.”

Silence.

“I'll check it out. Let me know if you remember anything else.”

M:
“Are you still floating, sweetie?”

ODYSSIA:
“Yes.”

M:
“Have you discovered anything while you're up there?”

ODYSSIA:
“Jilly likes Richard.”

M:
“That's marvelous. Are they dating?”

ODYSSIA:
“Not yet. You know Jilly.”

M:
(laughed) “Anything else?”

ODYSSIA:
“Mr. Windwill doesn't look very good in his skivvies.”

•  •  •

As rumors about gills and webbed feet spread, you could hear the question whispered throughout the town . . . traveling on the breeze . . . carried from tree to tree . . . bird nest to bird nest:

Is he a fish?

Sure, folks asked it as quietly as possible, especially when Sia was near. But still they asked:

Is he a fish?

And on the nights when Jilly's beacon changed sequences or gleamed more brightly than other nights, they asked the second most pressing question:

Is he an alien?

Once, after taking out cash at the bank machine, Sia heard Mason Vireo asking the questions of a couple of tellers. She turned, looked at his stooped, hopeful stance, and said, “I've got a question.” Mason and his audience waited. “Are
you
an idiot?”

The
Dutchman: A lightly tanned Q-tip. White on top (hair) and white on bottom (a pair of gleaming white leather high-top sneakers). The in-between was thin and tight, and except for a set of frighteningly blue eyes, he was someone most people would have looked right past, the way you look past the generic cereals in the grocery store.

The German: A sturdy box of a man. Square shoulders. Square jaw. Square hips. Square nose. Even his head was a perfectly square lockbox. Everything square except his bottom which was large and round and mushy like a rotten peach.

•  •  •

“Just two?” Sia said.

Dr. Dillard smiled. He was wearing a bow tie and was on his best behavior for his colleagues. “Yes, I decided it's best not to overwhelm the Silent Man.”

“Oh,” Sia said, smiling back, “when you first introduced the idea, you said you were bringing four or five translators. Not overwhelming Toad did not seem to be your top priority.”

Tip cleared his very long, very thin throat. “Mrs. Dane, we decided to keep it small.”

“I see.”

“May we meet the Silent Man soon?” Bottom asked. “We're anxious to see him. Is he here?” This promised to be a turning point in their careers. The translation that would catapult them into stardom. The discovery of the Silent Man's origins. The house vibrated with anticipation.

“First,” Sia said, “we're going to go over the rules.”

“Rules?” said Tip. He looked at Dr. Dillard.

“Rules,” said Sia.

“What kind of rules?” asked Bottom.

“Mrs. Dane, we haven't discussed any rules,” Dr. Dillard said.

Sia smiled and handed him a sweaty glass of iced tea. “They're not up for discussion, Dr. Dillard. They are simply the rules.”

They heard footsteps in the kitchen and the three men turned anxiously toward the sound. Gumper appeared in the doorway, alone, as if on cue.

“Hey, Gump,” Sia said. He walked to her, looked around the room at the three men, grumbled a bit, then turned and returned to the kitchen. He sloshed loudly from his water bowl and then flopped onto the kitchen floor out of their sight with a grunt.

“That's a very large dog,” Tip said.

•  •  •

The Rules:

1. Do not take Toad out of this house. Do not stuff him in your car and whisk him away to some laboratory at your hospital as soon as I turn my back.
   
2. No rough-and-ready tactics. No tough-guy stuff. No in-your-face methods. This is not
   L.A. Law
   . It is my home and Toad is not a criminal.
   
3. If you find that Toad speaks either German or Dutch and he begins to talk to you, do not continue without either Richard or me present.
   

Grumble, grumble. Sour look. Grumble, grumble.

Silence.

Collective nod.

Just
months after Jackson's disappearance, at the behest of Jackson's fellow wardens, the plover lovers forwent a float in the annual Yankee Homecoming parade. It was the first time since the plover was placed on the endangered list in 1986.

“Out of respect for Jackson,” they agreed.

Now, a year later, Mrs. Wysong commanded the helm of the float. Adorned in a plover headdress made of fake sand-colored feathers, she jittered back and forth, perfectly executing the hard-to-replicate movements of the skittish bird.

Joe Laslow and friends wore fox masks and lined up on High Street. As the float passed, they turned their backs, and then once it was traveling down the road, they made like foxes and slyly stalked it, followed by a clanging, hooting force of clowns, war veterans, balloon artists, fire trucks, and the high school marching band.

The g
angly geek waved an envelope at Sia as she backed out of the driveway. She rolled down the window.

“What?” she said.

“Your mailman must have dropped this.” He waved the envelope just out of reach. “It's from”—he held it up to read—“Sweden.”

“Give it to me.” Sia held out her hand.

“Hm,” the gangly geek said, “what's in it for me?”

“Me not calling Richard to have you arrested for theft.”

“Theft? I'm simply returning something I found. A little gratitude would be nice.” He handed the envelope to Sia. “One question answered?”

“Nope. I suggest you find someone more accommodating to harangue.” She put the envelope on her lap and jetted off down the road.

•  •  •

The Dogcatcher stood tall and narrow inside the forsythia bush, willing yellow blossoms to sprout from her limbs.

“I am a forsythia bush,” she chanted silently. “I am a forsythia bush.”

Gumper-Lady's car was so close—just a few inches away.

“I am a forsythia bush.”

•  •  •

As she drove to the coffee shop, Sia tore at the corner of the envelope with her teeth.

•  •  •

And then inside the coffee shop:

“Gullholmen,” she read.

Google.

Gullholmen: a small fishing village on the west coast of Sweden

Borje—author of the letter—described himself as a superior fisherman who was considered to be the luckiest fisherman on the North Sea.

“I can,” he wrote, “drive a boat into water so barren no fish have been seen in three weeks' time, and suddenly, everywhere you look, fish, fish, fish. So many fish that they swim into my nets just to escape their neighbors' gossip.”

Sia laughed. She looked around for Jilly, but no Jilly yet. Just a gaggle of reporters and photographers outside the window waiting for her to do something interesting.

“I believe,” Borje continued, “I have been lucky in many ways. In marriage. In fatherhood. And just recently, I was also lucky enough to see the man you call Toad . . . the man the television calls THE SILENT MAN.”

He wrote the Silent Man just like that—in bold, capital letters with a thick black underline. Sia heard the voice he was channeling . . . the deep, drawn-out voice that was otherwise engaged in announcing the titles of very bad B movies. Movies like
Attack of the Mushroom People
,
Whoever Slew Auntie Roo?
,
The Killer Shrews
, and ba-ba-ba-baaam . . .
Horror Hospital
.

“Ours,” Borje wrote, “is a small village with only one store at its center. A few roads stem from that center and none of these takes you very far from home.” Gullholmen was, he wrote, located directly on the North Sea, and most everyone in the village, with the exception of one transplanted Brit, had lived there all their lives. Their great-grandmothers' lives, too.

“The archipelago,” he wrote, “is less than an hour off the coast, and I, especially I, have to be really careful not to impale my boat on a rocky island. You see, I am blind. I haven't been able to see since I was five when I got knocked in the head with an oar.”

Sia paused. She sipped her cappuccino and shook her head. Sweden? A blind fisherman? An archipelago? Toad?

•  •  •

Snap, flash, snap.
Through the window, a photographer took his shot, but all he got was Sia's hair hanging in front of her face as she shook her head.

Ha.

•  •  •

“Odyssia,” Borje began on the second page, “a few days ago when I came in from fishing, I shared a coffee with my friend Hampus as I do every evening after a day on the boat. Hampus makes despicable coffee, so that the grounds float on the top and get stuck between your teeth, but since he doesn't mean to, I forgive him and drink it anyway. The newspaper was there, and as usual, Hampus read me the headlines from around the globe . . . politics, wars, and the like. But then I heard him humming and hemming at something that must have been interesting. I asked, but he was too caught up for a few moments to share. I waited patiently, as I have to wait patiently for all things I want to see but can't.

“When he finally began to read to me, Hampus read me the story about you in America and the man you found on your beach. As soon as he got to the third paragraph, I made him stop.

“‘Is there a photo?' I asked.

“Hampus doesn't like to be interrupted, ever, not while baking and not while reading, so I knew I was taking a chance. Hampus continued to read for a few minutes, talking about how silent the man was, and then he stopped and answered my question. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘There is a photo.'

“‘Good, now tell me. Does this man have long hair?' I asked.

“‘Why?' Hampus demanded. He was annoyed.

“‘Just tell me, does he have long hair?'

“‘Yes, it's long and rather scraggly.'

“‘Uh-huh,' I continued, ‘and does he have a square jaw?'

“‘Yes,' Hampus confirmed. ‘How do you know this?'

“‘And is he tall?'

“‘Yes, yes, yes, he's tall.'

“‘And are his shoulders especially broad?'

“‘Yes,' said Hampus.

“Odyssia, though you don't need to know every fact that I predicted about this man's looks, you should know that I knew everything about him . . . except, of course, facts related to color. Hampus was surprised and wanted to know how I knew these details. The tables turned. ‘How do you know his shoulders are broad?' Hampus asked. ‘How do you know the shape of this man's jaw?'

“And although Hampus kept fussing at me, I sat and wondered at how this man could be in your care all the way in the United States. It didn't make sense. Finally, Hampus put his hands on my shoulders and shook me.

“‘I saw this man,' I told him. Of course, the word
saw
confused Hampus. It confuses all people when they're talking to a blind man, but believe me, seeing is a layered process.

“So, Odyssia, if for a similar reason you're tempted to discount my story, please believe me when I say I did indeed meet your Toad. It was a few months back, and he was sitting on the dock where I keep my fishing boat. This seems unreal, even to me. But it is the same man. When I came upon him, he was sleeping, and concerned that whoever it was might be drunk and likely to tumble into the sea upon waking, I felt his face and body, figuring I would recognize him and return him to his family or at least his boat to sleep it off. But I immediately discovered that he wasn't a member of our community at all. He was a stranger, and I not only got a solid sense of what he looked like, but also a real sense of the sadness in his soul. Though people laugh at me, you must understand that my hands are very sensitive and can often feel things that people think can only be seen with the eyes.

“After a few minutes, the man on the dock woke up. He sat up slowly. I introduced myself and asked him who he was, where he was heading, and if he needed any help, but the man didn't speak. At this point, sadness was radiating from him like the rays of the sun. I offered him a meal and a place to stay, but he didn't show any interest. For a while we just sat quietly and then after a bit, he stood and headed for land. I don't know if he'd stowed away on one of the boats and disembarked on our dock or if he'd traveled to us by land and had simply chosen the dock as a safe resting place. I don't know. I do know that he was wearing a really nice suit made of very good cloth that not anyone in my village owns, and I also noticed that he wasn't wearing any shoes.”

•  •  •

The door to Starbucks opened. A photographer leaned in with his big, noselike lens.

Sia gave him the finger.

Snap.

•  •  •

“I have tried in this letter,” Borje continued, “to answer any and all questions that might come up on your end of things so that you don't have to waste time writing to me. A few other people in our village saw your Toad from a distance, but no one else interacted with him. He did not speak to anyone. He didn't buy anything in the store or ask for directions. Of course, the young women in our village who are hungry for outsiders have talked about him ever since. They were captivated by the mystery, and if he hadn't disappeared so quickly after my time with him on the dock, the young women might have kidnapped him and kept him for their own. Of course, the young men amongst us were offended and mocked the silence of the man, refusing to speak to any of the young women for a full forty-eight hours. Such behavior cured the girls' interest, as they were not willing to sacrifice their obvious options for something so transient.

“Odyssia, I don't know if this letter is at all helpful, as it contains no concrete information about the origins of your lost man, but I always believe that more information is better than less, no matter. My wife warned me against writing it. She said it sounded as if you'd had enough struggles already, but I'm hoping this letter helps to unravel things for you.”

Borje closed with an address and a phone number.